Your World Was Not Mine (Your Eyes Told Me So)
by Lothiriel84
Summary: She dozes off soon after, dreams of beehives and white cliffs and a dark-haired child playing along the shore. And in her sleep she smiles, though she doesn't know why.


She comes home after her interview with The One Show to find Sherlock's handsome Met inspector waiting for her on the doorstep. Apparently the consulting idiot has bolted from his hospital room shortly after her visit, and his friends are desperate to find him before he gets himself killed for real.

That's exactly what should be expected from a man like Sherlock, she firmly reminds herself, ignoring the pang of worry tugging at the bottom of her stomach. Still she gives Greg her number, just in case; he promises he will call if anything comes up, and if he ever decides to ask her out for a coffee or something – well, it's always good to kill two birds with one stone, isn't it?

The first time they sleep together is the day Greg stops by to tell her that Sherlock is finally out of hospital, and hopefully for good this time around; she's relieved and angry in equal parts, and the Scotland Yard man can make for quite a pleasant distraction when he puts his mind to it. After that they start seeing each other about twice a week, which is a good thing because it helps her take her mind off her farce of a relationship with Sherlock Holmes – and the fact that she's not over him yet, even in spite of her better judgement.

She has made it very clear that she's not ready for anything serious at this moment in time; Greg seems to be perfectly fine with that, contenting himself with whatever she's willing to give him, and for however long she wants to. He's the one to tell her about the rough patch John and Mary are going through, and how Sherlock is all set on fixing things between the two of them; he's also the one who holds her as she retches above the toilet every morning for over two weeks – must be a stomach bug, for she definitely can't afford to face the other option – and brings her a nice cup of tea afterwards.

It's on Christmas Eve that she bows to the inevitable and pees on a stick, which results in her worst nightmare coming true. Once is all it takes, she's always known as much; that doesn't stop it from feeling like an ironic twist of fate given her current situation, and all the lies she's been feeding to the press.

She's still heaving on the bathroom floor when Greg calls to inform her that Magnussen is dead, and that Sherlock shot him in the head. For a moment there she's not sure whether to burst out laughing or crying; instead, she begs him to come over as soon as he can, then hobbles to her room where she collapses onto the bed and surrenders to forgetful sleep for the time being.

xxx

"It's his, isn't it?" Greg murmurs into her ear, his arms wrapped protectively around her. "Are you going to keep it?"

She doesn't reply, and she's secretly grateful that he doesn't press her for an answer. Sherlock's fate is still uncertain, and somehow she needs to know before making up her mind one way or the other.

"Brother's going to send him on a suicide mission," Greg announces early in January. "Give him a sporting chance to fight for his life, he says."

Janine kisses him on the cheek, tells him he's a man in a million –he understands, gives her a wistful smile and asks if there's anything he can do for her. He drives her all the way to Sussex even if she says he doesn't have to, makes sure she's all settled in her cottage before departing with the promise he'll bid Sherlock farewell on her behalf.

_I'm sorry about everything_, the idiot texts her the following day._ Take care of yourself._

_What about you?_ she types with trembling fingers; for all that she claimed she still needed the occasional top-up of revenge, that's most definitely not what she was thinking about.

_Goodbye_, he writes by way of a reply, and she knows she's not going to hear from him again.

She turns the radio on, tunes in to a violin concert, wraps a wool blanket around her shoulders and cries herself asleep on the living room sofa. Damn Magnussen and Mycroft and detectives too clever for their own good, she mutters under her breath right before falling into a dreamless slumber.

xxx

"He's back," Greg drops by to tell her, and isn't he such a good friend after everything they've been through together? She suspected as much after a dead man apparently decided to hijack every screen of the country, just to give Mycroft a plausible excuse to recall his brother from his exile; still she's too tired to figure out all the ways Sherlock's unexpected return is going to affect her life.

"Good for him," she breathes, fighting back another bout of nausea. "Don't tell him yet, will you?"

"If that's what you want," Greg murmurs somewhat dubiously; it's Sherlock Holmes they're talking about, and sure enough he's going to deduce it sooner or later.

It doesn't matter now, she decides as she closes her eyes and leaves her friend to find his way back out of her front door. If only she could settle for nice, ordinary men like Greg Lestrade, then her life would be definitely easier than the mess she's walked into of her own free will.

She dozes off soon after, dreams of beehives and white cliffs and a dark-haired child playing along the shore. And in her sleep she smiles, though she doesn't know why.

xxx

It's only a month later that she receives another text from Sherlock. _Need anything? _it says, and she has half a mind to tell him to go to hell, and bring a toothbrush along just in case.

_What's your point, Sherl? _she replies instead; her ankles are swollen, and she's not in the best of tempers to deal with an annoying bastard she's beginning to suspect she's never going to be over and done with. (Doesn't even want to, if she's completely honest with herself.)

_John and Mary are going to have a girl_, he replies after a moment, and that's when she has to swallow around the lump that has settled in her throat. The truth is that she wants a girl too – and a man who doesn't trick himself into believing he's not allowed to care.

_Give them my love_, she writes at last, sinking back against the pillows; hoping against hope that if she keeps her eyes shut for long enough, she won't have to wake up ever again.

xxx

Greg calls her when March is drawing to an end, shares the joy for the happy event of Alice Watson's birth. Except that the last thing she wants is rejoice over something she's never going to have – a happy gathering of family and friends, no matter how unconventional or difficult to deal with.

"He's good with the little one," Greg fills her in, almost as an afterthought. "People use to call him a freak and he's nearly convinced himself they must be right; but the truth is that he's like a little boy that fell from his bike, and vowed he's never going to get hurt again."

"You're a good man, Greg, and the kindest of friends," she breaks the silence at last. "I hope Sherl is aware of that."

That evening she curls up on the sofa, nursing a cup of frankly disgusting herbal tea. _Yours is a girl too_, she types up quickly, hitting the 'send' button before she can change her mind.

_I know_, he replies almost instantly, and for the first time in months she falls asleep with the hope that they can make this work, whatever it is.


End file.
